


Better

by hopeless_romantic_spoonie



Series: Tom Hiddleston Drabbles and Ficlets [3]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Mention of blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 17:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_romantic_spoonie/pseuds/hopeless_romantic_spoonie
Summary: When you accidentally cut yourself while cooking dinner for you and Tom, he is there to tend to you.





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a request from a follower on Tumblr, who wanted Tom comforting the reader who has a phobia of blood. As such, there is talk of blood, as well a small injury.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

Surrounded by root vegetables, with soft music sounding lightly in the background and Tom humming along as he padded around the kitchen in socked feet, you were content. Your hips swayed slightly in tune with the beat as you resisted the urge to put down your knife and dance with your drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend. You rarely got these moments with him, silly and domestic and carefree, as he was always either way for work or busy delving deep into a role, his commitment to his craft imploring him to spend long hours deep in thought.

A laugh bubbled up from your throat when you lifted your eyes to him as he slid across the floor in front of you, balancing precariously with his long arms stretched out on either side of him. 

And in doing so, your attention lapsed for just one brief moment, and your knife caught the tip of your index finger.

Your eyes darted down to the cutting board at the shock of pain stemming from the wound, instantly spotting the blood your accident had caused. Your vision grew hazy at the macabre sight, blurring around the edges as it felt like the oxygen was sucked out of your very lungs. The world spun around the focal point of your injury, and you gripped onto the kitchen island with your other hand as your knees weakened.

Arms, smooth skin over steel cables, wrapped around your middle, guiding you to the floor. You were only vaguely aware of your name delivered into your ear by way of a silken voice, rich and soothing even when alarmed.

The heavy weight that had settled over your chest lightened considerably when your hand was covered with a clean kitchen towel, but it was still difficult to draw in a deep breath against the dry tightness in your throat. Gentle fingers, cool against your flushed skin, hooked beneath your chin and lifted until your eyes met Tom’s.

“That’s it, darling. Look at me. Good girl,” he cooed, his warm gaze holding you captive, even as you felt him begin to tend to your hand just out of your sightline.

You willed yourself to focus on the light blue depths of your love’s gaze, losing yourself as you tried to decide whether the warm glow of the lighting made the undertones more gray or green. He praised you quietly as he worked, and the kind lilt of his voice drew your attention away from his eyes to the rest of his face.

You often joked that he looked as if he had been sculpted from marble his body was so beautiful, and his face did nothing to disprove your statement. The rise of his cheekbones, freckled lightly from a recent bout in the sun, framed his face wonderfully in conjunction with his jaw that was so sharp it could cut glass. The barest hint of auburn stubble was visible, and you knew intimately the feeling of it against the smooth skin of your own cheek. 

The burn of alcohol pulled you from your visual exploration of your lover’s face, and your eyes dropped down quickly in alarm. A wave of sickly heat roiled out from your middle at the blood on your finger.

“No, no, dearest.” One of his hands released yours to cup your cheek, caressing your face tenderly as he lifted it back up. He smiled softly, warmly, wiping away the concentration that had creased the skin between his brows. It was replaced with his brilliant eyes crinkling with affection as he regarded you. “Don’t look away from me.”

You listened to his measured command, tamping down the nausea that burned at the back of your throat to trace the column of his neck with your greedy gaze. His pulse was barely visible, solid and strong, much slower than the fast drumming of your own in your ears. The worn blue fabric of his sweater stretched across his chest with each deep breath, and you timed your breathing to it. Just as you regained the ability to breathe deeply again, he turned away from you for a brief moment, giving you an eyeful of the unruly ginger curls against the nape of his neck.

When he turned back around, he pulled you in between his legs with his arms around your middle, tucking your head beneath his chin. Your arms automatically encircled his slender chest. You settled the residual trembling of your hands by smoothing them over his spine as you held onto him, seeking the familiar comfort of his embrace.

“You’re alright, I promise. I’ve got you.”

His lips moved against your forehead with each word before he pressed a firm kiss there, his breath smelling faintly of mint ghosting across your face. You tilted your chin up, silencing the last of your anxiety with the image of his handsome countenance beaming down at you. One of his hands came up to tangle in your hair, holding you as he brushed his lips across yours tenderly. 

“Better?” he asked, allowing his forehead to come to rest upon yours.

Surrounded by him, all lanky limbs and heady masculine cologne, you finally managed to return his smile. All your worries and fears were erased when you were enveloped in the safety of his arms. “All better. Love you, Tom.”

“Love you, too.”

And he kissed you again, his chest pressed against your side, and you quickly lost control of your even breaths for another different - much more enjoyable - reason.


End file.
